


your eyes, they watch coldly (over the land of Fódlan)

by troofless (iluvcelebi)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (insert his last name here because Intsys never deigned to give it to us), (the true heretics), Character Study, Felix “I’ll keep these feelings in me until I die” Hugo Fraldarius, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Seteth “Not if I can help it” Therapyman, also it has swearing i guess??, in which I delve deeper into the FE plot underlying message that war kills even its survivors, re: felix gives out pinpoint advice but takes none of it, this thing can actually be rated gen but I put it in teen anyway just in case??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 17:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21450178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iluvcelebi/pseuds/troofless
Summary: At night, as he always does, he lies in bed and allows himself to think. As always, it is about Glenn, and now, his recent addition to his things-to-mull-over-while-waiting-for-sleep-to-approach since there is nothing else to do but lie in bed, his father. And every night, Felix feels pain in his heart, but he does not cry.Felix copes with the death of his father by not coping.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 78





	your eyes, they watch coldly (over the land of Fódlan)

**Author's Note:**

> i’m sorry i don’t actually know how to write felix i don’t know what i’m doing

Felix learns of his father’s death the same way he learns of Glenn’s, with just three words, and through word of mouth:

“Your father’s dead.”

He was in the middle of removing his armour after the battle at Gronder Field when Mercedes came to find him, her face grave. (There was a dark joke to be made, somewhere, about healers often being the bearer of bad news. Sylvain had joked about it while bedridden in the infirmary once too many times for Felix’s taste for it to have stuck in his mind.)

He had paused, before saying curtly, “I see”, before continuing to remove his gauntlets, with the kind of calmness one had when they had not just received news of the death of their one remaining family member.

Looking back at it, to anyone else watching, he had probably acted like the stone-cold bastard he was known to be. But what was he to do? Was he supposed to cry, like he did when Glenn died? This was a _war _they were fighting, not some friendly mock battle with their neighbouring country. He had long since made peace with the fact that there would be casualties brought on by the onslaught of war. His father, too, would have known that, and in fact would have died _satisfied,_ knowing that he had died serving his duty to the royal family.

The fact that his father had died _protecting_ their king, which he found out much later, had not made the taste in his mouth any more bitter. Too many bad memories, of an armour melted down beyond recognition, the sickening wrongness of the absence of a body for a proper funeral, and his father’s words that had made his stomach _turn,_ until he had rushed outside to the gardens and vomited in the bushes, continuing to retch long after there was nothing else left in his stomach to empty.

There is no time for a proper funeral during a time of war, which Felix is glad for, because he doesn’t think he can stand a battalion’s worth of people and more coming up to him to offer their condolences for the late Duke Fraldarius, especially if he has to look each and every one of them in the eye.

Still, the attention he gets in the next few days are bad enough. The furtive glances directed his way and the hushed whispers that rise and die down just as quickly as he walks past people down the corridor almost push him off the edge he is teetering on, a fine line away from drawing his sword.

The only person who actually speaks their concerns to his face is Sylvain, who draws him up outside Felix’s room on the night of his father’s death, just as Felix is about to retire for the night.

“Hey.” Felix had paused, his hand on the door handle. He did not turn to face Sylvain, because he did not want to see what kind of expression Sylvain had on his face. “Felix, I… I just want you to know that… if you want to talk about it, I’m here for you.”

Sylvain’s tone held no hint of his usual levity, which was telling enough that he was trying to be considerate for Felix. Which just made Felix even more irate.

“There is nothing to talk about.” Felix had hissed, his grip tightening on the door handle.

“Look, all I want to say is that it’s not good to bottle these kinds of thing up. It can even be someone that’s not me, someone good at listening, like Mercedes, or—”

He had known that nothing good would come out of it if he spoke, but he did it anyway. “Tell me then, Sylvain. Did you cry when your brother died?” 

And without waiting for his answer, he had opened his door and slammed it behind him.

It was cruel, he knew, and the next day he had searched out Sylvain at the first opportunity and apologised to him, who had accepted it with an easy smile and a friendly slap to Felix’s back.

No, save Sylvain, no one is brave enough to address him directly, in fear of the sharp sword at his side and his even sharper tongue in his mouth. Even Mercedes seemed to hold some sense of misplaced guilt, and giving him space after their awkward interaction on the day of his father’s death. The only other person that could possibly _be_ in close proximity with Felix and wind up relatively unruffled had shut himself up in his room after Felix’s father died. Like an injured beast retreating back to its cave to lick its wounds, Felix supposed.

It should come no one’s surprise when he finally snaps, although he supposes it must have been to some, because quite a number of people jump when he slams his fist down on the table in the middle of dinner one day.

“The next person,” he says, his voice dangerously low, “To look at me as though I am going burst into tears the very next second, will find all of their fucking limbs broken and beyond repair.”

There is silence as he glares into the sea of faces, his eyes glinting with a silent challenge for them to speak up. They would tell him how they were just trying to be mindful of him, and in doing so meant tiptoeing around him like he was spun glass, like they were _looking down_ on him — and— and— 

And all of a sudden, Felix just felt really tired.

He was tired, so tired of it all, and he’d wish they’d just say something, instead of giving him that same _look _that everyone gave him back when Glenn died. He wished they’d speak up, to challenge his outburst right now so that he can lash out at them with all the anger and vitriol bottled up inside him, and drown out the question that has been on the tip of his tongue and the forefront of his mind for _years._

Yet, at the same time, he regrets it, because he has just upset just about half of the dishes on the table and just about everyone at the table, and all of a sudden everyone’s gazes are upon him, and Felix— Felix was never meant to be in the spotlight, that place was solely reserved for Glenn, the firstborn, the eldest, the heir to House Fraldarius, and Felix was completely content with that. He was satisfied with having all the love showered onto his elder brother and receiving little to none, because he liked isolation; he hated drawing attention to himself, and hated having to make eye contact with people, and especially hated it when—

_Everyone is looking._

There must have been signs, the beginning tells of his icy cold expression starting to crack, that his disdainful sneer was going to give way into an expression more malleable and vulnerable, because the two people who would have noticed it first are also the first to react. 

The not-so-thankful part is that Felix is given no notice, which is why he gives a very undignified squawk as Sylvain slaps him hard on the back as he cackles madly, crying, “Why Felix, we all know that if you actually did go through with all of your threats, I’d be dead where I stood!”

Ingrid is the next to speak, her tone solemn but holding an underlying hint of humour. “Are you complaining, Sylvain? Because by the time _I’m _done following through all of my threats, you’d be left _wishing_ you were dead.” 

As if on cue, everyone breaks into laughter, and just like that, the spell is broken, and Felix — after elbowing Sylvain and scoffing at Ingrid, followed up by a grudgingly thankful look — picks up his spoon and continues his dinner from where he left off, quieter than he was before.

Because of the dinner incident, Felix is reminded of why he doesn’t like to talk to humans. It seems like the only way he can get catharsis these days is by sparring.

Today, Byleth’s choice of poison is pure, unadulterated hand-to-hand combat, which is fine by Felix because he has had enough of blades and stabbings for at least a long while. As they fight, Felix has to admire his moves; there is no style or finesse to it, as had been drilled into Dimitri and Felix by royal instructors, but hard, and brutal efficiency, the intention to finish the match clear in each strike that they take.

The way Byleth utilises every part of the body to the maximum is fascinating; Felix knew that every part of the body could act as a killing tool if operated the right way, but to see his theory being practised, and being proven right in front of his eyes is another thing altogether. It is beautiful, in a raw way. 

Years of brawling with the strongest — and inhumanely so— person in the Kingdom could not have prepared him for this.

No, unlike the living corpse, their professor is born from the desperate will to survive to fight another day. Byleth fights with a tenacious hunger to _live,_ and Felix is enraptured by it.

They aim at the most vulnerable parts of Felix’s body — eyes, throat, solar plexus, groin — with the intention of landing a fatal strike. Byleth forces Felix to go on the defensive, and soon he finds himself slowly losing ground. They reach the edge of the training grounds, where Felix backs up onto the steps, aiming his jabs downwards with the gained height advantage. Byleth, however, is unfazed, and ducks low to the ground like an animal and takes out his legs in one clean sweep.

Felix tumbles down the stairs and lands on the ground heavily, groaning. For a moment, he considers giving up and letting the feeling of hard grit sticking to his back and arms sink in. As tempting as that offer is, however, Felix does not allow himself to wallow in defeat. He brushes the thought aside, and quickly gets up on his feet, ready for the next bout. His professor, however, does not close the distance, but lowers their fists and relaxes their stance. 

A break, then.

Felix lowers his fists.

“Where did you learn how to fight like that?” He asks, brushing the grit off his clothes, collected from his numerous acquaintances with the ground, courtesy of Byleth. 

The martial arts taught by his instructors placed more importance on heavy fisticuffs, but during their spars he noticed that Byleth tends to incorporate kicks and throws as well, as if they knew that Felix would be interested in them.

Byleth blinks slowly, cocking their head to the side. “The animals.” They offer, causing Felix to raise an eyebrow. 

“The animals.” Felix states flatly, almost a question in itself.

Byleth shrugs. “The wolves. The bears. The insects. The geese.”

“The _geese?”_ Felix asks.

Byleth nods solemnly. “Even the geese.” 

Felix shakes his head before throwing up his hands in bemusement. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Just teach me how.”

Every day he would spar with Byleth, or if Byleth was unavailable, Shamir, since she wasn’t the kind to make small talk, until the sun dipped below the horizon. Felix is more often than not the last person to leave the training grounds, repairing training dummies and replacing training weapons before heading back to his quarters. 

At night, as he always does, he lies in bed and allows himself to think. As always, it is about Glenn, and now, his recent addition to his things-to-mull-over-while-waiting-for-sleep-to-approach since there is nothing else to do but lie in bed, his father. And every night, Felix feels pain in his heart, but he does not cry.

There is one night, however, where he is just, unreasonably and unexplainably, unable to fall asleep. After an hour of counting swords in his head to no avail, Felix throws off his bedcovers in frustration. 

It was time, he decided, to deal with the elephant in the room — mainly, the untouched pile of gifts lying on his desk.

Call them pity gifts, or the opposite of whatever people gave to couples on a wedding day; someone had taken the effort to arrange all of their offerings neatly on his desk in his room. It definitely wasn’t Felix, because if it was up to him he would have left them to stack where they were left outside his door.

“Tea leaves, a book about a chivalrous knight_—Ashe._ A weapons maintaining set, a full set of armour that I am never going to wear because I am a foot soldier, not a fortress knight, _thank you very much,_ a hunting dagger, dried jerky, a ticket for ‘a free singing session’??” 

Felix looks at the slip of paper, written in Annette’s handwriting, in disbelief. “What am I, a kid?”

(He pockets it anyway.)

Well, since he wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon, he might as well make use of his gifts, right?

Felix sets aside those that he was going to dump onto Sylvain later, clearing a well-sized portion of his desk, on which he sets down a cup of brewed tea, a plate of dried jerky, and his feet. He picks up Ashe’s book, chewing on a piece of jerky — well-seasoned with his favourite spices — and starts to read.

The next day when they assemble for war council, Dimitri makes his appearance for the first time in weeks.

His apology and his return to the world of the living all sound and look real, and Felix very, very much wants to believe in it just like everyone does. He wants to believe that Dimitri had stopped letting the dead dictate his life, had stopped trudging down that bloody path of guilty penitence, which would only end up with him dying from exhaustion, and had started to live for himself.

But he couldn’t. 

Getting hurt, watching the people around him getting hurt, Felix was tired of it. 

Let the others be hopeful. He had to harden his heart, make it sharper, colder, and unbreakable. 

Because Felix, with his biting words and cutting insults that came second nature to him, was incapable of the care and warmth that came to others so easily. No, all he could do was to play the skeptic, and hold on to the glue behind his back. And when — if — it ever happened again, Felix would be there to catch them when they fell.

So, he had to remind himself. Keep your guard up. Watch. Listen. Just because the voices are quieter doesn’t mean they’re completely gone. Remember that Dimitri has had a record of faking the sanity in him, acting as if he was not constantly weighed down by the dead and his own guilt, desperately looking for a way for all of it to end, until, pushed to the brink of sanity and reason, he convinced himself that the only way for him to be saved was to seek the death of another, and _revel_ in it. 

He denied his friendship and bonds, pretended they didn’t exist because he felt that he was unworthy of it, not because of whatever lies he was spewing from his mouth about how they meant _nothing _(nothing at all) to a beast. It was this martyrdom, this stupid self-immolation and self-hatred that you hated, and will do anything to prevent from happening again.

The words don’t lessen the pain he feels anyway.

Felix isn’t running away from his problems and everyone. He just wants to be alone. Which is why on a particular evening he finds himself exploring the more dangerous parts of monastery — the areas in so much disrepair and in danger of crumbling into nonexistence that they were cordoned off until further notice. Felix will be fine; he has a soldier’s instinct and balance to keep him alive, as well as a frame smaller and more agile than most men. 

(It’s not his fault his parents gave him a lean, elegant build not unlike those fancy Imperial nobles that fenced as a _sport,_ and didn’t care to grace him with a large, fighter’s build like Sylvain’s or Dimitri’s.)

He soon finds himself at a rampart overlooking the west side of the monastery. Parts of it have been weathered by rain or destroyed by the war five years ago, but Felix picks a space relatively unscathed and settles down, legs dangling over open air. 

Little by little, he watches as the sun sets in the far horizon, and the inky black dusk seeps into the sky and turns day into night. His breath comes out in thin wisps now, in the night chill, and he tugs his hood over his head in protection against the whispering wind.

He remembered, twelve years ago, sneaking out with Dimitri into the forest behind the Fraldarius estate one night. They had crept into their secret hideout, a hidden glade in the middle of the forest, where they laid on their backs and looked up into the night sky, pointing out the stars and reciting their names to each other.

In the same way now, he finds himself drawn to the stars, both familiar and foreign as they are in this new territory. He finds himself trying to recall their names under his breath.

Felix isn’t a devout believer of Seiros’s teachings. He never was, and that didn’t change even as the fires blazed through the land of Duscur and burned away the innocence of his youth.

_Do you believe in the stars?_

If he had to believe in something, rather than a goddess that watches and blesses the land from above, he would rather believe in the stars, as individual deities, doing nothing but watch over the land and its people as they constantly warred over petty beliefs and ideals, and committed atrocities under their unblinking eyes. Once, he even believed that they were people, watching the stories in his land unfold for their entertainment.

But stars were just stars, and no matter how much you talk to them, they will not answer back. Maybe that was the good thing about gods — you could ask them anything you wanted, and spend your whole life searching for their answer, and if you wished for it, you would find it. And if you did not want it, you would not.

Felix does not know how long he has spent staring into the distance, but he knows that it has been a while. Soon, it will be time for dinner, and eventually someone will notice that he is missing, and dispatch someone to go look for him. 

He is humming softly, one of Annette’s tunes, when he hears footsteps approach from behind. He expects it to belong to Sylvain or Ingrid or even Annette. This is the excuse he uses when the person does not say a word but instead settles down on the ramparts beside him, which prompts Felix to turn around, and then visibly _jumps _because it is not Sylvain or Annette but _Seteth._

The monastery’s second-in-command is sitting beside him, interlocked fingers resting on his knees, looking silently out into the sea of trees beyond the confines of the monastery. 

Unwilling to expose his embarrassment by speaking up, Felix does not deign to say anything, following Seteth’s gaze into the trees and beyond. 

Somewhere in that direction lay the Empire, and further beyond that, the imperial capital Enbarr.

He’s glad that Dimitri decided to halt their expedition and head back to reclaim Fhirdiad. Felix doesn’t feel any sort of righteous anger towards Edelgard like Dimitri does — or had —, or a passion to rescue the archbishop like Mercedes and the other believers have. He doesn’t fight for lofty causes. What he fights for is the same as anyone on the battlefield.

A rustle of paper, and Felix turns to see Seteth place a few meat pies on the flat stone in between them.

Seeing him take no further action to talk, Felix picks up a meat pie and bites into it, appreciating that it was fresh and warm.

He swallows, finds that Seteth is not watching him but looking out into the night sky, and feels comfortable enough to speak, albeit flatly: “Did you need something?”

Seteth blinks slowly, before replying, “No, not at all. I just wanted to tell you what I’ve observed of you.” His tone is the same as the last time he spoke to Felix — solemn, sincere, and most importantly, lacking the pity and hesitation that Felix had grown irritated of hearing from other people.

Seteth continues. “You recognise the issues in the people around you, and point them out with the precision of a medical needle, pushing others to fix their actions in accord to your own beliefs. And when they do not, you distance yourself from them, convincing yourself that it is useless trying to convince them. Yet, unable to let go, you continue to watch over them from a distance, until you find inevitably find yourself approaching them again, and the cycle repeats.” 

Felix scowls. “And is this some kind of advice to tell me to stop because it’s useless? Because like you said before, it’s impossible for everyone to adopt the exact same beliefs as mine?”

“I just wanted to point out that one of those beliefs of yours happen to be that one should keep their personal feelings and emotions to themselves instead of letting them affect their actions.”

“As you may have noticed, we are at _war._ Only a fool would allow his emotions to dull his blade on the battlefield.”

“As it is, I understand that you are harsh with everyone like this _because_ you are harsh on yourself. You hold yourself up to a high standard and expect everyone to follow the same standards. Which would also mean that you do not allow yourself to fail in those same standards.”

Felix tightens his grip on the stone ramparts. “Enough with it. Get to the point. What are you trying to say?”

“Felix,” Seteth turns to him and looks him in the eye and says gently, in a way that makes Felix’s stomach drop into a fiery pit of lava in Ailell. Under Seteth’s gaze, he feels exposed, all his thorny layers peeled away, revealing the inner thoughts buried deep inside his core. 

“There is nothing wrong with grieving the dead in the middle of a war.”

Felix starts to laugh. 

It sounds completely foreign to him, so low and bitter and completely defeated is his voice, that it could not have belonged to him. 

He drops his head into his hands.

“You’re right. There’s nothing strange with that. It’s just me.”

He continues, before Seteth can speak. “Do you want to know something? I didn’t cry when my old man died. I didn’t cry at his funeral. And I certainly don’t cry when I think about him every night. That’s not normal, is it? It’s not like I didn’t love him. Sure, he was a shitty parent, but he was still my old man all the same.

“So, the only conclusion I can come to is that I must not have loved him enough to cry.” Felix mutters darkly. “I mean, I cried when they told me Glenn had died. I guess a part of me must have died on that day as well.”

“I find it very strange for you to be saying such things. It is not like you to be doubting yourself. It is not a crime to not shed tears for a loved one, Felix. There are simply many ways of grieving.”

“You don’t understand. It’s a sign. The children of Faerghus learn to swing a sword before they learn how to read. We’re child soldiers that grew up to be emotionless killers. I know I’ve killed so many people that it’s enough to build a mountain. 

“Because that’s what I was born to be. A soldier. But maybe I’m too good of a soldier. Killing so many people has made me immune to death. Immune to emotion. Broken and fucked up beyond repair.”

He gathers up his legs and buries his head in the space between his chest and legs. 

“Hey, Seteth.” 

It has been crawling under his skin for a long while now, ever since he first felt it cut through flesh and take away human life.

A question sometimes louder than the screams of the soldiers he's killed on the battlefield, drowning out all sounds in his ears.

Something that he has accepted, and rejected, and accepted again in a never-ending cycle. 

“Am I inhuman for not crying?”

He feels Seteth’s hand on his shoulder. It is a touch that burns like a brand, and yet he cannot bring himself to shrug it off. He hears Seteth exhale, a small puff into the cold wind of the night, and speak:

“I have heard of the… harsh practices of Faerghus, but… Felix, that is no reason to belittle yourself. Of course you are human. We are all soldiers fighting a war. People have different ways of coping with what they have seen on the battlefield. Some pray to the goddess. Some cling to the code of chivalry to support them. Some read the letters sent from their family every night before they go to bed. Some seal away their emotions so that they will not be able to feel anything. Such is the sad fate of those on the landscape we call the battlefield.”

Felix lifts his head. He focuses on a single star in the sky overhead — the dimmest one of them all. You had to strain your eyes to see it. “I can see it.” 

He didn’t need to look hard to see signs of it in everyone. Ingrid, in her dull eyes, and the way she clutches Lúin and mutters the code of chivalry under her breath. Sylvain, in his expressionless face on and off the battlefield when he thinks no one is looking. Ashe, when he prays in the cathedral for his brother and father. Mercedes, when those hands made to give life takes another away. Annette, as she tries too hard to reach out to everyone with her cheer to forget the pain. His comrades. The boar. And finally, himself. 

“This war has hollowed us out. And one day, we’re going to realise that we need something to fill up that void in ourselves. And when we eventually do, some of us are going to fill it up with the only way we know how: the blood of our enemies.” 

“That’s when we turn into beasts.” Felix says bitterly. That was what he had seen seven years ago, during the western rebellion.

“And yet the fact that you are even doubting your own emotions shows that you do have emotions like a normal human being. So does everyone else. We all walk a fine line between the light and the dark. But the difference between us and those that have succumbed to the dark is that we have a lifeline to pull us back when we stray from our path. Ideals, even though you may not believe in them, is one of them. It gives us strength, and purpose to live.”

Purpose. Felix cannot help but hum in mockery. There is no good reason for kill — others, like Edelgard, say it is for the good of the world, painting it with pretty words like ‘justice’ and ‘liberation’. Why not say it for what it is? 

In response, Seteth nods his head. “Yes, there is a purpose in killing. I spill blood on my hands to protect those that I love, and so that the next generation may grow up knowing what peace is like.”

“A noble sentiment.”

“Is that not why you wield your blade as well? 

“The strong live. The weak do not. That is why I wield my blade.”

“To survive, and protect the weak.” Seteth supplies.

“And they call us heroes for it.” Felix says scornfully, though he does not refute Seteth. “This war is stupid.” His voice is warped and overly harsh. He hates it. He sounds like a small child, petulantly complaining when even the slightest thing didn’t go his way. “I hate it. Everyone thinks we’re some kind of heroes, standing up to the Empire. How laughable. They don’t realise that once the war ends, we’ll all go back to being nothing else but a bunch of murderers.”

Seteth shakes his head. “You are more than that. We are all more than that. You just haven’t found out what it is yet. A trusted friend? A benevolent duke? A good lover? A beloved father? You would do well to think of what you want to do and who you want to be when the war is over. Have a goal in mind when you fight and strive to end this war, lest you be devoured by the monstrosity of war as well.”

_And become nothing but a meandering sword, seeking out death upon a hill of corpses._ Felix silently adds.

“Just because the war ends does not mean our people are saved.” Seteth says. “There is much to do when the war is over, and it is my duty as the advisor of the Church of Seiros to ensure the restoration of the church as well as its believers. Think about what you want to do. Maybe that will help to tide you over your sleepless nights instead.”

Felix hums. “Hm. I suppose you are right.” Inexplicably, his heart feels lighter now. He crosses his arms and scoffs at that ridiculous thought. “It’s not like I was thinking otherwise. I just needed to get that out of my system. I don’t know why, but speaking to you is so easy, it’s disturbing.”

He does not turn to look, but he can feel Seteth smile. “If that is your way of a ‘thank you’, I shall take it gladly.” 

They both fall silent then, sitting with a sort of calming stillness. 

And above, the stars watched coldly over the lands of Fódlan.

Eventually, as it must, dawn breaks, the sun rising over a land soaked with blood, rays bleeding into the sky and giving it colour.

In the early hours of the morning, Felix visits the cemetery for the first time since the battle of Gronder. He brings along flowers from the greenhouse. He lays them down on his father’s tombstone, joining the mountain of flowers heaped on it as tribute.

He had watched from above the steps as Dimitri lowered his father’s coffin and body into the grave, and let everyone else approach to drop their flowers in until his body could not longer be seen. Gilbert was solemn. Ingrid was crying. All the soldiers and vassals of House Fraldarius unsheathed their swords and bowed as a sign of respect.

Sylvain had stood beside him throughout the whole procession, not saying a single word. When the last clod of dirt had landed on his father’s grave, Felix had crossed his arms and stalked off before Gilbert could approach him with his father’s sword and armour — _Not again!_ He wanted to scream. As if he wanted to touch the belongings of the _dead!_ — and hand it to him.

Standing before his father’s grave now, Felix crouches down and unsheathes his dagger. With deliberate, painful strokes, he carves the crest of Fraldarius onto the unmarked tombstone, swiping away hair fallen loose from his hair tie and mopping sweat from his forehead. 

“This, Felix, is the crest of our house.” Glenn had told him when Felix was five, and still young and only concerned with playing mock battles with Ingrid, Dimitri and Sylvain. He had shown Felix the insignia embroidered onto their father’s cloak, that he had no doubt smuggled from their father’s room.

Felix frowned, picking at the threads of the insignia sulkily as if he could unravel them. 

“It’s a shield. Why is it a dumb shield. Why can’t it be a sword? I want mine to have a sword on it.”

Glenn scoffed. “Idiot. You’re still a kid, so obviously you wouldn’t understand the importance of it. We’re born to serve and protect the royal family. Father served them as their shield, and so did his father, and his father before that, going all the way back until our great ancestor Kyphon. One day I will too, swear fealty and lay down my life to protect the Blaiddyds, and one day so will you. And you’ll do it proudly.”

Felix looked back at the cloak skeptically. He wanted to ask how he was going to protect someone stronger than him, someone who was Felix’s age but already breaking as many swords as he swung them. He wondered if he would be able to go so far as to die for someone, even if it was his best friend, just because of an ancient duty and promise passed down for generations. 

“Okay.” He said, after a moment. “I guess if you say so.”

Felix stands up and brushes stone dust off his hands and dagger. He steps back, examining the tombstone with a sort of detached emotion, the same way he does when he runs through enemy soldiers on the battlefield with a blade.

He wasn’t one for eulogies, especially ones written and prepared beforehand, and especially ones praising the dead for their duty well done.

“Here lies Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius.” Damn. The words sounded even stranger when he gave voice to them. Maybe he should just leave the flowers and the cemetery before anyone chances upon him, in which case they would only see him muttering to himself and panic thinking Dimitri’s lunacy was catching, whereupon Felix would be arrested for war crimes against an ally.

He clears his throat, and tries again. “Rodrigue. Old man. Former head of the Fraldarius house. He was…” A shitty father? A weakling that was stabbed to death by a little peasant girl half his size? An even shittier father? “…Someone who stood true to his beliefs. Which also included dying for said beliefs, because he thought they were worth dying for.”

He knows what his father would want to say to him. What he would want to pass down. And yet, it still felt like something was missing, for his old man not to leave a message for Felix when he died. 

Any last dying words like “tell my son I love him” (very unlikely, even the mere thought makes Felix feel like retching) or “tell my son the duty rests on him now” (this one was more likely) or even something as mundane as “avoid the Gautier Cheese Gratin, my son, it’ll ruin your stomach and your life” (he wouldn’t know what to do if his father actually said that), anything to show that he thought of Felix in his last moments. There was no sign of it. 

Felix didn’t begrudge him for it. He wouldn’t know if it would have changed anything. They were already too far detached from the idea of a normal, happy family. They couldn’t go back to how it was back then — the dead wouldn’t come back to life, and the past would always stay in the past. He’ll never sit down and hold a conversation with his father ever again. His father, who was now lying in the grave before him.

“I won’t follow you.” Felix declares. “I’m going to succeed the house, and I’m going to live and die an old and happy man — fuck you, by the way — and not as some tragic sacrifice to the royal family.” 

If he stopped to think, he could, from the deepest depths and crevices of his memory, dredge out a few memories of the times they spent happily together. A gentle hand ghosting past his hair, coming to land on his shoulder. A small praise in-between, or laughter upon hearing his latest exploits with his childhood friends. His name, not as an afterthought, but spoken lovingly. 

Those memories were not cherished much, and were blurry to the point of being almost forgettable. He wanted it to stay that way. Memories had a way of twisting themselves to glorify the dead, and Felix had no intention of letting his own do just that.

“Goodbye… father.” Felix says quietly. 

He turns around and leaves, and does not look back.

**Author's Note:**

> Felix: Am I inhuman, Seteth?  
Seteth, about to say 'we’re all humans in the palm of the goddess' but realising that he's not exactly qualified to say that: wait,
> 
> your eyes, in the title, both refer to the stars and the people (you!) who have experienced fe3h. go reread that paragraph and go 'wowza' over the meta. hah.
> 
> ever read fma and get to that part where ishbal!roy looks at young nineteen-year-old riza and go ‘ah, how terrible. this girl has the eyes of a killer too.’ and feel terribly in awe of arakawa. anyway go read fma manga, specifically the manga, to learn more about war horrors
> 
> also, my tumblr is at [troofless](https://troofless.tumblr.com/), you can drop asks or check me out here!


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